In Dreams By Pattyrose
by Words of Love for Meli
Summary: I see him every night in my dreams, and it's the only place I see him. Yet, somehow I know that in this cold, barren world, he's the only hope for our future.
In my dreams, he's reaching out, arm extended and long fingers splayed. His furious, green eyes bulge in a desperation so all-consuming that it seems to emanate from deep within his very soul. It's as if his entire fate -no- as if the fate of this cold, barren world hinges on whoever or whatever awaits the pull of his hand. There are flames behind him; a hulking crimson rage against a black backdrop as endless and amorphous as the underground caverns in which the Pale Ones dwell. The flames lick at his back, singe the hairs at the crown of his head so that the strands resemble copper coils flickering and sparking to life. Yet he stands his ground; he reaches and grunts, growls and yells unintelligible words, arm and fingers stretched so taught they almost appear to be elongating from the despair etched across his face.

"Damn it, take my hand! Reach for me!"

"I can't! Just leave me! I can't! I can't!"

" _I can't."_

I wake to the realization that those two words have just fallen from my mouth like a whispered regret. Misery weighs me down, crashes over me like the poisoned waves of the oceans we're taught once actually maintained life. It's not the first time I dream of him, but it is the first time the dream progresses beyond his unintelligible words; it's the first time someone other than he has a speaking part.

And that other person appears to be…me.

Although, I have no real reason to believe that it's me for whom he's reaching. After all, I don't know him or recognize him from anywhere other than my nocturnal visions. The men I know look nothing like him. Despite the anguish marring his features, the dirt and soot seeping into every crevice on his face and the rips and tears at his strange clothing, he's well groomed. His skin is smooth, not pocked or scarred by disease, combat or malnutrition. His hair is neither shaven in the manner of our Warriors nor overly long in the manner of our Elders. His odd, unfamiliar clothing, torn and soiled, was obviously once clean and well-fitting and is neither the black uniform of our Warriors nor the grey jumpsuit of our Commoners nor the long, white robe of our Elders. His entire frame exudes an overall health and physical state of well-being possessed by no one I've ever known.

"Izbela, was it the dream again?"

My sister, Aleesha, lies face up next to me on the bed we've shared since she was born, two years after my own birth. Her voice is soft and soothing, a perfect intonation for the Commoner job our Elders have bestowed on her as Teacher; although, like our mother, Aleesha has The Sight, which automatically secures her a place at the Elders' Table when she reaches the age of thirty.

 _If_ she ever reaches the age of thirty. In our world, living past our youth is far from a given regardless of our place in this society our forefathers built from rubble.

When I finally find my voice, the words come out in a broken whisper. The last thing in this world I ever want to do is hurt or worry my little sister, but the dream has left me more bewildered than usual, and besides, I'm still balancing between the threshold of conscious and subconscious. My confession erupts from me as honest and forthright as the tearful admission of a two-year old who's just run off with the last piece of bread.

"Yes. It was the dream. It was… _him_."

"And were you able to see any more than before, Izbela? Could you see where he was or who he was or who or what he was reaching for?"

"Yes. Yes, I saw more. I saw his eyes and the fire waiting to consume him, but then I also heard his voice. It was raw and hoarse and as wretchedly full of terror as the rest of him." A strangled sob rises to my throat so quickly that I have no time to thwart its escape. Instead, I push a fist into my mouth to hinder the possible spurt of any more. I'm a Warrior, and Warriors are not allowed the same displays of emotion or weakness as are Commoners. Our society can't afford for us to do so.

"What did he say, Bela?"

I hear the anxiousness in Aleesha's own voice. Her Seer's heart sees the dream as a sign, as a vision that must be taken apart and analyzed…and her womanly heart sees it as so much more.

To me, the dream has been no more than a manifestation to be fought against. But now…hearing the desperation in his voice…

"He said…he said, 'Reach for me.'"

"Who was he speaking to, Bela?"

"I don't know. I don't know, Ally; I just don't know!"

"Shh."

I've spoken too loudly into the Pure Dark – the hours of the night that belong solely to the Pale Ones. During these hours, we make as little noise as possible lest they hear us. For a few seconds, we both hold our breaths, listening beyond the walls surrounding us to see if we pick up the sound of any movement outside of the structure our father built of mud and concrete and leftover pieces of steel from the world that came before us. When half a minute passes and we're satisfied with the stillness, Aleesha turns sideways to face me, and I turn towards her as well. Her eyes are two dark jewels in the unlit room. She takes my hand between us and squeezes tightly.

"It's just a dream."

"Izbela, it's not just a dream. It continues. It grows."

"He doesn't exist. No…man like him could possibly exist."

"Perhaps…perhaps not on this realm, but you _see_ him."

"I don't _see_ him, Aleesha. _I_ don't have The Sight."

"You are Mother's daughter, just as I am."

"And I am Father's daughter. I'm a Warrior, not a Seer. It's a manifestation of the tales we've been told by the Teachers and the Elders of what The World was once like. It's the overactive imaginings of a young warrior who dreams of the impossible, and whose dreams must never become known, or I will be deemed weak and then ejected from the Order of the Warriors."

She squeezes my hand tightly. "Bela, you're not weak, and I'd never betray your dreams; you know this."

Her voice is low yet forceful. Mother and Father sleep just a stone's throw away, and not much further than that are the other families with whom we share our space. Strength is in numbers. "But a mere dream wouldn't leave you this way, gasping for air with a heart so shattered that when you wake, I can feel your pain."

I reach out and stroke her beautiful face. Despite my effort, the smile I try to offer her is distorted by quivering lips.

"My heart shatters because the dream taunts me with illusions of a world that may have been better than ours. I'm teased with a middle but no beginning or end. And you, dear sister, feel my pain because you're the best person in this pitiful world of ours, and you allow yourself to feel _too much_."

"There is no such thing as feeling too much."

"That may have been true in ancient times where varied societies existed, and the sun actually shone in the sky, and the oceans weren't bottomless pools of toxins. It may have been true when the Pale Ones didn't exist, when people's daily lives consisted of pleasure-seeking instead of survival, when people dwelled in structures designed for gods. It may have been true when societies passed time watching things called televisions or playing with little handheld machines. Perhaps, back then," I whisper, "it was acceptable to feel too much as there was so much to feel, but now…."

My sister holds my gaze sorrowfully, and I regret my morose words. She's sixteen years old, and she deserves a world where there is the hope of too much feeling. But as much as I want to protect her, I won't lie to her.

"There is more, Bela, and I believe you've been gifted with Father's Warrior spirit _and_ with Mother's sight."

I shake my head, but she continues.

"I believe that this is what The Dream is trying to convey. That's what he is trying to tell you when he asks _you_ to reach for him. There _is_ more."

I turn away from her, gazing blindly at the ceiling above while feeling my sister's eyes still on me. There is no more, only this dead and empty planet destroyed a millennia ago by wrong decisions, a vengeful cosmos and the evolvement of half of the world's population into something unthinkable.

"Aleesha, I know you have the Sight, but this time, you're wrong. It's nothing more than a dream. Go to sleep. Pure Dark will be over in a couple of hours."

I know she wants to say more, but she's obedient and respectful of me as both Warrior and older sister. Eventually, her breathing evens out into the quiet rhythm of sleep. I, however, lie awake until the dim and grey, paltry light seeps in through the crevices of the walls, the meager illumination, which is all that our sun is able to provide. We're taught that once the Sun was a brilliant orb, casting magnificent rays of orange and yellow over the entire planet, warming it so that our heavy clothing was unnecessary except for a few months out of the year.

"Is that the world you lived in?"

I mouth the words noiselessly. When I close my eyes, I picture the smooth face with the green eyes, except they're no longer consumed with horror. They're bright and lush like the pictures the Elders show us of how forests once looked. His mouth isn't hanging agape in the middle of a howl of desperation; rather, it's spread in a wide grin the likes of which I've never truly seen anywhere other than in my mind.

"Who are you, and why do you haunt my dreams?"

It's my final thought before I succumb to sleep. I'm a Warrior, a practical thinker, a defender of our way of life regardless of how horrible and hopeless that life may be. I have no notion of ever receiving an answer, much less of the fact that I'll receive my answer before our meager sun sets once more.


End file.
